“Got it.”
I actually jumped in the air and let out a whoop as I stepped out of the phone booth. A couple
of the boys were walking by. “That good, eh?” one of them drawled.
“I think I’ve found a job!” I crowed.
They were genuinely happy for me. “Doin’ what?” one of them wanted to know.
“Weekend disc-jockey! I go in for an interview at three.”
“Lookin’ like that?”
I hadn’t thought about my appearance. There’d been no haircut for weeks, but I could
probably get away with that. Half the disc-jockeys in America had pony tails. But I would have
to do something about my clothes. There was a laundry room on the grounds, but I didn’t
have the money to buy soap, get something washed and dried and ready to wear, plus pay
the bus fare up to Medford and back.
It hadn’t hit me until then just how poor I was. I couldn’t make a basic maneuver, like running
into town for a quick job interview, without some sort of miracle occurring. I got an experience
right then and there of the obstacles people on the street face just trying to get back on their
feet and lead a regular life again.
The two men looked at me as if they knew exactly what I was thinking.
“You got no money right?” one of them half-snorted
“A couple of bucks, maybe,” I guessed, probably overestimating.
“Okay c’mon, kid.”
I followed them to a circle of tents where a number of other men were camped. “He’s got a
chance to work his way out of here,” they explained to their friends, and mumbled something
else I didn’t hear. Then, turning to me, the older of the two men growled, “You got something
decent to wear?”
“Yeah, in my duffel bag, but nothing clean, nothing ready.”
“Bring it back over here.”
By the time I returned, a woman I’d seen around the springs had joined the men. She lived in
one of the small trailers that dotted the park. “You get those things washed and dried and I’ll
iron ‘em for you, honey” she announced.
One of the men stepped forward and handed me a small brown paper bag, jingling with
coins. “The fellas dipped in and pulled this together,” he explained. “Go do yet laundry.”
Five hours later I showed up at the radio station bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and looking
like I’d stepped out of my uptown apartment.
I got the job!
“We’re talking $6.25 an hour, for two eight-hour days,” the program director said. “I’m sorry I
can’t offer you more. You’re overqualified, and I’d understand if you decided you can’t take it.
A hundred dollars a week! I was going to make a hundred dollars a week. That’s four
hundred a month—at that time in my life, a fortune. “No, no, it’s just what I was looking for right
now,” I offered off-handedly. “I’ve enjoyed my career in radio, and now I’ve gone on to
something else. I just wanted to find a way to keep my hand in it. This’ll be fun for me.
And I wasn’t lying, because fun it was. The fun of surviving. I lived in my tent for a couple
more months, and I saved up enough to buy myself a ‘63 Nash Rambler for $300. I felt like a
millionaire. I was the only one in our group at the campsite with wheels, and the only one with
a regular income, and I shared both freely with all the others, never forgetting what they had
done for me.
Nervous about the dropping temperature, I moved in November into one of the tiny one-room
cabins at the park that rented for $75 a week. I felt guilty leaving my friends outside— none of
them had that kind of money—so I’d invite one or two of them to share the space with me on
the really cold or rainy nights. I tried to rotate the guys around, so everyone had a chance to
get out of the weather.